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by Truth



Category: Book of Life (2014)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 21:20:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5471132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Truth/pseuds/Truth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hearing the General urge a grief-stricken Maria, tears still in her eyes, to marry –  Hearing her ask him to stay, promise to marry him; it was what Joaquin had always wanted.</p>
<p>But never like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





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**Author's Note:**

  * For [vociferocity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vociferocity/gifts).



Everyone’s life has moments where things snap into sudden, unexpected and unwelcome, perspective. Joaquín Mondragón was familiar with the feeling, depressingly so. He preferred to live in the moment, seeing only the next goal before him and, thus, rising to the occasion with vigor and enthusiasm. 

He had been a child the last time he’d felt such a desperate, sinking feeling. 

_‘It was a great victory, Joaquín. You should be very proud of your Papa.’_

At five years old, he’d been confused, staring at the nuns as they’d gone about their gentle, inexorable cleaning and removing of his father’s things. He hadn’t been worried, or upset. He saw his father only occasionally, a stocky, fierce man who told him bedtime stories on those nights when he was at home, and let Joaquín fall asleep wherever and whenever he found himself, instead of enforcing the nuns’ stricter bedtime. Joaquín never known his mother, and with the constant presence of the nuns and his father’s awkward affection, had never truly felt the lack.

_‘He loved you very much, Joaquín. You must grow up into a brave man, just like him. It would make him proud.’_

Truly, very little had changed in Joaquín’s young life when Chakal had slain his father. Enough money had been left that he needed nothing, the other families in San Ángel made certain the orphaned son of their hero knew his father had been admired and that Joaquín was loved – and the nuns took care of everything else.

The nuns had always helped to look after Joaquín, so the change wasn’t staggering or acute.

He still remembered the first time he _understood_ that his father would never come back., that he would never again be hugged and tossed in the air, swung around and around to the tune of a rough laugh that would never sound for him again.

It had been the end of the world – at least for a while.

Hearing the General urge a grief-stricken María, tears still in her eyes, to marry – it had caused an unpleasant twisting somewhere deep inside.

Hearing her ask him to stay, promise to marry him; it was what Joaquín had always wanted.

But never like this.

He walked out into the silent streets, forcing himself not to look toward the Sánchez house, where sorrow held a tight and desperate hold, and wondered where things had gone so horribly wrong. He _loved_ María. Passionately. Desperately.

But the empty, lost look in her eyes told him a truth he already knew. Without   
Manolo – without Manolo, they had both lost the joy that coloured their entire lives. 

After he had run away, it had been Manolo who had sought out Joaquín, found him curled into a tight and miserable ball, doing his best not to cry. Being brave meant that you didn’t _cry_ ….

_‘That’s not true.’_ Manolo’s eyes had been wide with surprise. _‘Bullfighters are very brave, and they cry. Of course, Grandmother says bullfighters are very emotional people. Then she threw her knitting at Papa.’_

Surprise had distracted Joaquín from his misery, and he’d uncurled himself slightly to stare at the other boy. _‘Your papa, he is the bullfighter Sánchez?’_

Manolo had nodded proudly. _‘Would you like to come home with me? Mama says growing boys need to eat, and it is almost dinner time._ ’

Manolo’s bright smile and outstretched hand had shaken Joaquín from his misery. He’d followed Manolo’s cheerful chatter all the way to the Sánchez house, where he’d been taken in and fed a very large dinner. He’d fallen asleep there, woken in the morning by Sister Concepción, who’d made certain he’d thanked the Sánchez family before taking him home.

Joaquín saw Manolo every day after that. He ate many meals at the Sánchez house, and when María raced around a corner one day and demanded that they assist her in a scheme involving her father’s horse, a particularly festive serape, a set of papier-mâché horns, and her father’s favorite sword –

Never had any of them been in so much trouble, and once they were released from their several punishments, they became inseparable. 

María was their leader, she of the brilliant ideas and fearless invention. Manolo was their inspiration, cheering his comrades on and leaping forward in María’s wake. Joaquín attempted to be the practical one – attempted and rarely succeeded. Still, he threw himself into their adventures whole-heartedly, slowly finding himself looking forward to every escapade, despite the inevitable punishments.

Everything had been _perfect_.

Somewhat irrationally, Joaquín wanted to blame it all on Chuy. If It hadn’t been for that blasted pig –

He stayed in the darkened street, still and uncertain. Despite his somewhat… unorthodox bull-fighting methods, Manolo had been universally adored by the inhabitants of San Ángel. Always friendly, always willing to help others, _always_ entertaining – the entire city was in mourning. María’s miraculous recovery had brought joy, certainly, but Manolo….

Manolo was _gone_ , and with the memory of their last words between them, Joaquín was left with a painful, gaping emptiness to match that seen in María’s grieving eyes. All they had left now was each other, and maybe, as he glanced unwillingly down the street toward the Sánchez home, maybe he would be able to bring a smile to María once more.

That would be enough. It would have to be.

**

Joaquín did not sleep at all well.

Despite the nuns, who’d been a part of his life in the place of his mother, despite the acclaim and the smile and the adoration - San Ángel no longer felt like a home. Over the years of María’s absence, as his adventures carried him to distant places, he’d always found himself eager to return.

Manolo would be there, and they’d find time together to get into mischief, or just sit and talk about nothing at all. Manolo would play his guitar and ask about Joaquín’s exploits, and they would reminisce until dragged away by conflicting responsibilities.

San Ángel was where Manolo was, and the place to which María would return, and he always paused when his horse reached the top of the last hill. He’d look down at San Ángel and take a deep breath of anticipation, knowing he was almost _home_.

Tucked into the most comfortable bed in the city, lauded, welcomed, engaged to the girl he’d always loved –

He felt miserable, unsettled, and unsure. He’d always dreamed of this, to marry María, to finally win the silly game he and Manolo were playing, and then they’d live happily ever after. Manolo would fight bulls during the day and play his guitar at night, and make certain María always had company when Joaquín was fighting bandits….

It had been a silly, childish dream, and he could see that now. The bitterness and misery of hindsight, of _realization_ could almost be tasted as he tossed and turned. María had always said she wasn’t a prize to be won, and by treating her as such, he’d lost her – and also lost Manolo.

This was his very last chance to make things right, to try to bring back María’s smile. If he could just find a moment to speak to her alone, to _explain_ what she meant to him, how much he wanted to make her smile return, that he’d do _anything_ to make up for the loss –

He couldn’t. He would _never_ be able to fill the hole that Manolo had made in both of their lives. All he could do was try.

**

The decision to slip that damned, trouble-causing medal into the heavy decoration of Manolo’s jacket had been so easy to make. Joaquín would have done anything to keep from seeing that look of passive, uncaring _acceptance_ on María’s face again, anything to keep from being the one left standing, unable to properly pick up the pieces, and not even sure how to mourn.

Such an easy, painless decision -

At least until he was faced with the consequences.

“How could you do such a stupid, stupid thing!” Despite her raised voice, María was in no danger of being overheard. All of San Ángel, the living and some of the dead, were dancing and singing and shouting around them.

“I didn’t –“

“I wasn’t-“

She held up her hand, silencing them both. “Joaquín, it was very brave of you to give up your medal. Manolo, I am very proud that you wished to protect us all.”

As the two young men exchanged glances and began to relax, her eyes narrowed. “As for your suicidal wish to each protect the other, I have a few things to say on _that_ heading as well.”

“María, I –“

Her glare again reduced Manolo to silence. “I am so very angry, Manolo. Joaquín may have planned to save your life at the expense of his own, but _he_ did not, not attempt to kill himself _twice_. How _could_ you?”

Joaquín very sensibly kept his mouth carefully shut.

Manolo opened his mouth for a retort, closed it again, looked at Joaquín and then at María and shrugged helplessly.

“You are never, ever to do that again, Manolo, do you hear me. _Never_.”

“Never,” Joaquín echoed, unable to keep from taking a step forward. “That – you have no idea what – how – “

Manolo looked from one to the other, visibly drooping. “I… I just thought –“

“You weren’t thinking at all.” María folded her arms, scowling. “Either of you. I-“

Whatever she had meant to say was lost forever as the party swept over the three of them, separating them and bearing them away.

That María would marry Manolo was nearly a foregone conclusion, and the two of them were taken to the church, and Joaquín watched the ceremony with a happy, heart-broken smile.

María was alive, and the empty passiveness, so entirely foreign to her nature, had vanished as if it had never been. Manolo was alive, smiling and laughing as if he’d never died or attempted to destroy Chakal at the expense of his own life. Everything was _better_ … and nothing would ever be the same.

“Silly boy.” Adelita Sánchez draped herself over one shoulder, apparently feeling that there could not possibly be any objection to a heavily armed, dead woman invading his personal space. “Why do you look so sad? It’s a wedding, not a funeral.”

“Ridiculous boy.” Scardelita imitated her sister’s pose, equally indifferent to whatever Joaquín might feel about her sudden presence. “What is it Manolo is always saying?”

“No retreat,” Adelita responded, a wicked gleam in her eyes.

“No surrender,” Scardelita answered. She tweaked one end of Joaquín’s mustache. “You’re in love. This is no time to admit defeat.”

Joaquín recovered himself enough to raise both eyebrows. He raised both hands, indicating María in her white dress, the still masked priest, and Manolo.

“It’s just a wedding,” Adelita scoffed. “You’re not planning to steal the bride, after all.”

“Or the groom,” Scardelita said. She was grinning as she tweaked Joaquín’s mustache again. “There’s a certain charm in a matched set, after all.”

Joaquín sputtered, taken by surprise.

“Don’t bother to deny it.” Scardelita smirked at him, pulling away to tap her eyepatch. “We’re dead, not _blind_.”

“But – wedding. _Marriage_.” Joaquín looked from one of the Sánchez sisters to the other, eyebrows climbing.

“Well, yes. And don’t they look _smashing?_ ” Adelita turned his face back toward the now-married couple. “I’d hit that – if one of them weren’t Manolo.”

“You’d hit anyone good-looking enough,” Scardelita said, rolling her one visible eye. “Come on, let’s go round up those maríachi. What this party needs is more music.”

They left Joaquín alone in the church with his suddenly turbulent thoughts.

The resultant party (only temporarily interrupted by the wedding) went on all night. It was almost dawn when Joaquín finally managed to extricate himself from the townsfolk, kissed each of the nuns politely goodnight on the cheek, and managed to escape to reexamine those thoughts.

Or tried.

He rounded a corner on his way to his lodgings – and walked straight into Manolo.

“Ow!” He blinked owlishly at the smiling Manolo. “Aren’t you –“

María stepped into view, also smiling widely. “What took you so _long_?” she demanded, raising both eyebrows. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

“Waiting for me?” Joaquín glanced from one to the other, frowning. “Aren’t you supposed to be –“ He wisely stopped, halfway to making some sort of entirely inappropriate gesture.

Manolo smothered a smile. “Supposed to be -?” he asked.

María stepped on his foot. She extended a hand to Joaquín. “Come along, Joaquín.”

Manolo grinned over her shoulder. “No retreat.”

“No surrender?” Joaquín raised an eyebrow. “Really? Is that where this is going?”

“It’s not going anywhere, at this rate.” With a roll of her eyes, María grasped Joaquín’s hand with both of her own. “We’re going back to Manolo’s house.”

Because of course they would. It was their home now. And… it would be empty. Joaquín frowned suddenly, shooting an uncertain look at Manolo.

“We’re not going anywhere without you, Joaquín.” Manolo’s voice was suddenly somber. “Come home with us, Joaquín.”

María tugged at his hand. “Come home with us, Joaquín. Come home – and stay.”

There was no mention of this offer being ‘for the sake of San Ángel’, no trace of hesitation or unhappiness on either face – and Joaquín waited for that flash of unwelcome perspective.

When it did not come, he felt himself slowly beginning to smile. “To stay?”

“Well, at least for the nigh- ow!” Manolo hopped away as María replaced her foot on the ground. 

“To stay,” she confirmed, eyes dancing with laughter. 

“Then,” sweeping her a bow, a difficult feat with one hand held captive in hers, “I would be delighted.”

“Of _course_ you would,” was Manolo’s sotto voce comment, but he had regained his smile. 

“And so are we.” María freed a hand to take one of Manolo’s in her own. “To be a home, we need to be together.”

“Together,” and Joaquín felt a broad smile begin to spread across his face as he allowed them to take him home.

**

The warm feeling of acceptance, of _home_ , and of everything being absolutely _perfect_ lasted until just about sunrise.

The thundering crash of the front door being kicked in brought all three of them to stairs, peering downward in various states of wakefulness, undress, and weaponry.

Manolo, unfortunately, was attempting to brandish his guitar, again, as a sword.

Standing in the now open doorway to the Sánchez home were a pair of extremely familiar silhouettes.

“Well?” Adelita stared up at the trio as Joaquín attempted to stretch the shirt he was wearing to offer slightly more modesty. Or any modesty at all, really.

“Well _what_?” demanded María, pointing her sword at her new in-laws. “Aren’t you supposed to be back in the Land of the Remembered?”

“Pffff.” Scardelita shot her a broad grin. “Why would we do that? Endless parties, singing, dancing? Do you know what you _don’t_ find in the Land of the Remembered?”

“What?” asked Manolo, giving them a suspicious look.

“ _Bandits_ ,” they chorused, with identical looks of fiendish glee.

“Get some pants,” Scardelita advised Joaquín, who was attempting to hide a blush. 

“You too, new cousin,” Adelita grinned up at María. “You can’t fight bandits in your nightdress.”

“You can,” Scardelita argued immediately. “It’s a wonderful distraction, but hard to accessorize.”

“A few ammunition belts, a pair of knives, a sword – what’s hard about that?”

Joaquín tuned them out, turning to look at Manolo and María… who were exchanging remarkably similar looks of speculation. “Oh no. No, no. We are _not_ going to –“

“Yes,” and Manolo was grinning, “yes we are.”

“I’ve always _wanted_ to fight bandits,” and there was a gleam in Mariá’s eye as she turned to Joaquín and wound the fingers of her free hand into his hair. “And we have an expert _right_ here.”

“Is no one going to address the fact that a pair of crazy dead women just knocked in the door?” Joaquín asked, heedless of the indignant ‘hey!’ floating up from below. “I don’t think this is the best basis on which to choose –“

“It doesn’t have to be bandits,” was Adelita’s contribution from below. “You could hunt –“

“You are dead, and thus I am not going to take advice from you,” Joaquín declared magnificently. “Especially as you _died_ while running about the countryside, engaging in combat, as I recall.”

Another indignant ‘hey!’ floated upward, also ignored.

He turned back to Manolo and María, who were looking back with matching grins. “We are _not_ going to –“

“He said ‘we’.”

“He did.”

“We heard him too!”

Joaquín glared at them all, temporarily forgetting his state of undress and pulling himself to his full height. “Focus on the discussion at hand – which is _over_. No. Absolutely not. The very next thing you know, we’ll be hunting chupacabra while –“ he took in the expressions surrounding him. “That was _not_ a suggestion!”

**

Joaquín was growing intensely familiar with the sensation of being over-ruled, ruthlessly ignored, and dragged about like a toy on a string.

“I think –“

“We shouldn’t –“

“ _María, no_!”

He certainly didn’t lack for opportunities to leap bodily into the fray, strike heroic poses, or be fawned over by witnesses and random by-standers, but still –

“Sometimes it feels like we’re still just kids, running around the streets of San Ángel, getting ourselves into more and more trouble.”

Manolo patted him on the shoulder, yawning. “At least my cousins went back to the Land of the Remembered.”

“It took La Muerte herself to get rid of them,” Joaquín pointed out, sighing. “You know, once upon a time, I dreamed of a small home, a wife –“

“And instead you are sleeping in a leaky tent with a young woman with the coldest feet in all of Mexico, and your own, personal mariachi.” Manolo slung arm an arm over him, dragging fingers gently through María’s hair as she slept, curled up in Joaquín’s arms in turn. “Having second thoughts?”

Joaquín sighed, relaxing into the warmth that Manolo was producing beneath the blankets. “Third or fourth, probably.”

Manolo’s voice was soft as he asked, “Regrets?”

Shifting, Joaquín smiled over his shoulder at Manolo, taking in the faintly worried look worn by the other man. No matter the escapades (which he really didn’t mind) or the leaky tent or the rain of lemmings the night before… remembering that emptiness caused by Manolo’s death, and María’s withdrawal? “ _Never_.”

“Good.” An elbow lodged itself in Joaquín’s spleen as María turned over, smothering a yawn of her own. “We _have_ a small home, back in San Ángel, and you have _us_ … and you _love_ our chaos.”

“Love,” Joaquín responded dryly, “is a little strong.”

“You love _us_ ,” Manolo offered.

“Well… yes.” Joaquín squinted at him in the dim light of the tent. “Do you really think I’d allow you drag me all over Mexico, risking life and limb, if I didn’t?”

Manolo laughed softly, “No retreat.”

“No sleep, either,” was María’s sleepy complaint. “Have your existential crisis tomorrow, Joaquín. Tomorrow we’re going to see the village complaining of shape-shifters and coyotes.”

“… I recant my declaration of love.” Joaquín made no move to dislodge himself from between them, and Manolo laughed into the back of his neck. “I am going to move to the coast and become a fisherman, live on the beach….”

Joaquín drifted off to sleep, surrounded by the people who made his life an exciting, sometimes infuriating, whirl of activity, life, and strangeness –

And he dreamed of home.


End file.
